


Meet You Downstairs

by vicewithavice



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Apartment AU, Jack the handyman, M/M, the housing market is in shambles you guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 14:17:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10280630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicewithavice/pseuds/vicewithavice
Summary: Jack steps in and heads to the kitchen. The place is very different from his. There’s only one small window in the living room, whereas Jack’s entire east-facing wall is made of glass, and the layout heavily segmented, the kitchen separated from the dining room and living room. The linoleum on the floor is peeling under his feet, and as he puts the toolbox down he can see a yellowish water stain.Despite that, it smells better than anything Jack’s ever had in his condo.





	

As Jack descends in the elevator to the basement, it strikes him that he never knew his condo building had a rental suite. Between his hockey commitments and hermit tendencies, there’s still a lot about his own home he doesn’t know despite living here for six years. It’s part of the reason he offered to help out around the building: to keep himself social during the summer season. His parents talked a lot about building a community of friends outside of work, and he knows his way around a toolbox so. Why not?

The basement is… really creepy, actually, reserved for the storage lockers and recycling bins. Even the parking garage is a level up and more inviting than this. There’s only one hallway so Jack follows it, certain he’s going the right way when he hears the voice through the wall. 

 

“It’s fine, Mama. I know you wanted to help me pick out a place but this one is great. It’s in a nice neighbourhood, very secure… Yes, I got your pepper spray in the care package, but please, this is Providence, not New York City.”

 

Jack doesn’t mean to eavesdrop but he can’t help but notice how young this guy sounds. In a building where the average condo sells for over two million dollars, most of the neighbours he sees in the halls are retirees or working professionals. There aren’t many parties, which he appreciates.

 

He knocks on the cheap wooden door which rattles in the hinges. No wonder they’re renting this room out, he thinks. There’s shuffling on the other side, and Jack hears the boy… man say “Goodness, I think the custodian is here already… of course I have pie who do you think I am? Call you back, love you.”

 

The door opens and there’s a lingering moment of silence as they each look at the person across from them. This guy looks to be a few years younger than Jack, a bit shorter, lean but with well-defined muscles he can see quite clearly thanks to him wearing the shortest shorts that could possibly be considered not-underwear. He’s staring. Oh boy, he’s staring and he needs to not be doing that so he drags his eyes up and they stall on the loose neckline of his tank top.  

 

“Uh…” Jack says.

 

“Uh... “ The other man says. He’s the first one to get it together, clearing his throat and backing away from the door. “The sink… it’s um. Clogged.”

 

“Right.” Jack steps in and heads to the kitchen. The place is very different from his. There’s only one small window in the living room, whereas Jack’s entire east-facing wall is made of glass, and the layout heavily segmented, the kitchen separated from the dining room and living room. The linoleum on the floor is peeling under his feet, and as he puts the toolbox down he can see a yellowish water stain. 

 

Despite that, it smells better than anything Jack’s ever had in his condo. The room is warm from the oven and lingering with apple and spice, and nothing has ever tempted him so much away from his diet. In the sink, there’s bowls and utensils coated in pastry and filling and it takes more self-control than he’s willing to admit not to lick wooden spoon. The pie is on the table, looking like something out of his mother’s magazines. 

 

“I’m sure you get this a lot,” the young man says from behind Jack, “but you look just like-”

 

“Jack Zimmermann. Yeah.” He knows who Jack is. Is that good? “I am him. Me. I’m me.”

 

“Lord,” He half whispers. Then, “well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Don’t let me disturb you from your work. There’s pie on the table if you want a slice, if you’re allowed to eat pie that is. Haha? I’m sure they must give you a cheat day. I’d die without my baked goods. Literally die. I played hockey in college but I’m not exercising like I used to so I can’t eat as much. I’m sure you know all about that, though. Oh, I’m rambling on, listen to me. Well you know what they say, you can take a boy out of the south…”

 

“It’s fine,” Jack says, smiling from under the sink. “What’s your name?”

 

“Bittle. Well, it’s Eric, but everyone calls me Bittle. Or Bitty. Technically no one calls me anything yet seeing how I just moved here from Samwell- in Massachusetts- which is why all of my respectable clothes are packed away right now.”

 

“Samwell? My mom went there, eh?” Jack does not comment on the clothes and he doesn’t let himself look away from the pipe he’s working on.  

 

Talking to Bittle is remarkably easy. Jack has been to Samwell before for his mom’s alumni event, so they reminisce about the pond, and Bittle tells him about their hockey team and it’s nice that they can discuss something other than his own performance on the ice. He asks a lot of questions about college, feeling like he’s missed some quintessential moment in his life, but the way Bitty describes it he thinks maybe he got off easy.

 

“Now don’t get me wrong, those boys are my family, but if I never have to spend another Sunday morning cleaning dried beer and vomit off the bathroom floor, it’ll still be too soon.”

 

Jack chuckles and eases out from under the sink, careful not to hit his head. “Sounds a lot like the guys on my team.” He stuffs the wrench back in the toolbox and triple bags the disgusting wad of something that looks like gum and hair he pulled from the pipe. “Oh man, one time Tater- um, Mashkov- invited a bunch of us over for brunch? And he had to hide all the good liquor but I guess they found it when he and I stepped out to pick up orange juice… when we got back the quiche was destroyed and the imported vodka was all gone.”

 

“That poor quiche,” Bittle says, hand on his heart. “I thought once I left college I’d be able to find a decent young man… but .... um…” he stutters on his words and Jack can see the flash of panic in his eyes. He wants to say it’s okay, no big deal. He wants to say he also is looking for a decent young man but he knows he can’t.

 

What he says is “looks like I’m all done here. Good talking to you.” He grabs the toolbox and stands, hovering awkwardly because he doesn’t really want to leave but he’s being weird again, the casual and easy atmosphere falling away, and it’s best to go before he can put his foot in his mouth.

 

“Here, for your help.” Bittle stands, too, the pie in his hands held out. 

 

“Oh. Uh.” The thing is that Jack does want to take the pie, his mother didn’t raise him to be rude, but he’s got a heavy toolkit and a bag of something disgusting, and an entire pie is really not on his meal plan. “Thanks, but you keep it.” 

 

“Okay,” Bittle says, and Jack thinks he sees his face fall but he’s smiling again in a blink. “Thanks for your help.”

 

“It was nice talking to you,” Jack says, because it was. Really nice, and Bittle is really nice. “See you around.” 

 

He leaves, the warmth and the lingering smell of apples fading as he makes his way back to the elevator. Somehow he waits until he’s all the way up to his place before groaning, chin dropping to his chest. “Fuck.” 

 

Flirting has never come easy to Jack, but he doesn’t think he’s ever walked away so embarrassed, either. Now, he thinks of all the things he should have said. He could have offered Bitty his key to the gym room, or promised to come back to switch out the bulbs, or help him unpack or something, instead of leaving in a rush the second Bittle mentioned his interest in nice young men, and - 

 

Shit.

 

He’s gonna think is a homophobe or something, when actually Jack is just easily overwhelmed by cute people in little clothes. There’s a part of his brain telling him to go back down and clarify this to Bittle, but his body is telling him to never leave his condo again. This is exactly why he focuses on hockey over socializing. At least he doesn’t have to worry about bumping into him; with Bittle in the basement and Jack on the sixth floor, there’s literally no way their paths will ever cross again.   
  


\---

 

They bump into each other, literally, three days later. Jack is in the basement carefully sorting his recycling into the bins, and when he takes a step back to move to the compost, he feels something very solid crash into him.

 

“Sorry,” he says automatically, as much a reflex as when he spins around and puts his hand out, catching the other’s arm to steady them. 

 

“No, no, I’m sorry.” 

 

And then Jack realizes he’s face to face with Bittle once more, and Bittle realizes who Jack is. 

 

“Sorry,” Jack says again. 

 

“Sorry,” Bittle repeats. His face is red as the large Samwell hoodie he’s buried in, and he quickly turns to the bins, chucking his garbage. 

 

Jack has an argument with himself, hoping he isn't scowling. He needs to say something, and it has to be funny and witty and welcoming, because he really wants to make Bittle laugh. It's a conviction he's had for approximately five seconds, but he is now more certain of this than anything. He clears his throat. 

 

“You can't recycle that,” he says. 

 

“W-what?” 

 

“Cardboard boxes lined with bubble wrap. You can't recycle those.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah.” Jack wants to throw himself into the compost. “Alright. See you.”

 

He exits hastily, hearing Bittle's faint ‘goodbye’ faltering in the hallway. 

 

\---

 

Without hockey to keep him occupied, Jack is left to dwell on his encounter. It's just embarrassing, really. He's the star forward of his NHL team, rich, good looking. He has plenty of friends, experience with both relationships and one night stands. For some reason, being around Bittle reverts him to his awkward 16 year-old self. Yeah, Bittle is his Type, capital T: short, blonde, athletic, and outgoing. He ticks every box, plus he's got an accent, which Jack didn’t know was a big deal to him, but apparently it is. 

 

When Jack really thinks about, he realizes that he's never had to do much flirting. People come up to him, usually in bars, make their intentions known one way or another, and Jack either accepts or declines. It’s a prompt and tidy transaction. He's pretty sure it doesn't apply in this scenario. 

 

\----

 

The next time Jack sees Bittle, he's ready. He goes down to the garage exactly a week after he bumped into Bittle, counting on the fact that Bittle has a scheduled time to take out his trash. It's a long shot, and Jack spends way too long sorting his recycling and lingering next to the garbage bin. He draws it out to a fifteen minute trip, then decides he's being weird and leaves. 

 

At that same moment, Bittle comes around the corner, trash bag in hand. 

 

Jack smiles, but it's not because that's what Tater told him to do. He is actually so relieved he can’t help but grin, in his subtle way. Bittle even offers a timid smile in return, and when Jack's about to open his mouth Bittle pulls his phone from his pocket. Now, he can see the white cord of his ear buds, and hear the tinny hiss of drums. 

 

This scenario did not come up in practice. He falters for a moment, then decides it would be rude to get his attention by yelling or tapping his shoulder. At least he knows where to find Bittle next time. 

 

\---

 

Bittle has his phone tucked between his cheek and his shoulder, chatting away amiably, when Jack finds him. Bittle’s on his way up the stairs as Jack comes down, clutching at his toolbox. The plan was to show up at the door and offer his services, fix the peeling linoleum or something, but he can't ask now, while Bittle is having a conversation and clearly on his way out. It's hard to be disappointed when he gets a shy smile though. Jack purpose walks down the stairs like he has somewhere to be. 

 

\---

 

The preseason starts, and Jack is busy. For the most part he doesn't think about Bittle, except when he bumps into him and then it's all he can do to force him to the back of his mind. As he gets further into the preseason it gets easier, reverting into his head, stressing over every missed pass instead. The first exhibition game is a loss, and Jack punishes himself in the condo’s gym, pushing himself harder, sweating out every thought of  _ I can't I can't _ , focusing on  _ I will, I will _ . 

 

It's not healthy, working himself this hard, but it's the only thing that keeps him sane. 

 

He leans against the hallway wall, waiting for the elevator. His legs are shaking and he doesn't trust them to carry him down the stairs. The ding chimes and Jack pushes himself up, and he sees Bittle step out. Bittle doesn't see him, not right away, his nose buried in his phone. He's in his workout gear, and Jack wonders if Bittle even sets his phone down while he's running on the treadmill. What people do on their phones so often mystifies Jack. 

 

“H’llo,” Jack mumbles. Even his mouth feels sore. 

 

“Oh!” Bittle looks up suddenly. “Jack. Hi.” 

 

The elevator doors slide shut but Jack is stuck in place. “Are you busy?” Jack points to Bittle’s phone. 

 

“Just tweeting.” Bittle says, dropping his hands down to his side. 

 

“You're on your phone a lot.” It sounds accusatory, and maybe it is, a little. “It's hard to flirt with you.”

 

“It's- what?”

 

“You're on your phone a lot.” 

 

Bittle’s face goes very red, and his eyes dart around the hallway seemingly unable to stay focused on Jack. “I…”

 

This isn’t how Jack planned on asking Bittle out, in the middle of a hallway, smelling like… whatever it is he smells like after a muscle busting hour in the gym. Not good. He realizes he hasn’t said anything in awhile, and he struggles to come up with something else to say. “Do you want to go for dinner? With me?” 

 

Bittle squeaks, and honest to God squeak that he seems ashamed to have made but Jack thinks it’s the cutest thing he’s ever heard. “Yeah. Yeah - I - When?”

 

“Oh. Uh.” Jack’s shoulders fall, some of the adrenaline fleeing him now. “I’m actually really busy with work these days…”

 

“Well,” Bittle looks around again, in case any nosy neighbours have their heads poking out their front door, “I know a place in the neighbourhood where the guy will cook you anything you want. It’s not the nicest but it has its charms.” Bittle rolls his eyes at Jack’s vacant look. “My place, Jack.”

 

“Oh. Haha, right. Yeah. Sounds good. I’ll text you?”

 

Bittle shakes his phone. “I’ve always got my cell on me. Anyways, I should-” he jabs his thumb at the gym and Jack nods. “See you around, then.”

 

Jack’s fumbling with getting his key in the door when he realizes he didn’t get Bittle’s number. He decides he’ll go down to Bitty’s suite tomorrow with his toolbox, and if Bittle’s on his phone, well - maybe he won’t mind being interrupted after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find me on tumblr @thehausghosts <3


End file.
